


love you in moderation

by mercuryhatter



Series: your friends are a fate that befell me [roleswap AU] [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bickering, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Other, Roleswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 04:38:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18003971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/pseuds/mercuryhatter
Summary: another century, another performance review. the apocalypse is a confounding factor.





	love you in moderation

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this long before "as love and its decisive pain" and then dithered about posting it when I remembered both fics have the same premise but. Oh Well Here It Is Anyway

By the time Crowley made it back to earth, even his human body, which had technically been sleeping the whole time he was gone, looked exhausted. His less physical body felt frazzled at the edges, even with the fresh, sharp smell of sandalwood and Heaven that clung to his wings and aura. Aziraphale stirred from his armchair as Crowley’s frayed presence filled the room, twitching irritably at the vestiges of holiness that seemed to ride in on his coattails. 

 

“ _ Ugh, _ ” Crowley said with feeling, throwing himself down into the other armchair, empty across the side table from the one Aziraphale sat in. Another cup of tea thought it best to be present between them, and Crowley picked it up and stuck his nose in the steam from it. 

 

“You’re late,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I see Heaven remains as painfully inefficient as always.” 

 

“Well, they weren’t really happy with me, were they? Showing up with  _ you _ of all people on the great big Final Battleground and then helping you go on about ineffability. The L word was tossed around. Only by Gabriel, but still.” Aziraphale laughed.

 

“My dear, please, as if you have the power  _ or _ inclination to incite the next big rebellion.” 

 

“Hey, I could if I wanted,” Crowley started, before realizing where this line of argument would take him. He narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale, who smiled smugly into his tea. “Quit that.” 

 

“If you insist.” He frowned at Crowley’s tea and the drink went suddenly ice-cold, sparking an annoyed yelp from Crowley. “Come here.” Crowley rolled out of the chair, grumbling, and draped himself over Aziraphale instead. He plucked the abandoned book off the armrest to make room for his legs and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor, a petty, unangelic revenge for the tea. Aziraphale set down his own mug and reached up to take off Crowley’s sunglasses, dropping them on top of the book. His eyes were a misty sea of grey, constantly shifting hues that occasionally revealed a flash of gold if one looked at them for too long. Aziraphale wasn’t concerned with them at the moment, however; he returned his hands to either side of Crowley’s face and pressed in to kiss him. At first the kisses were quick, sweet blossoms, before Crowley framed Aziraphale’s jaw in his palms and held him in for one that was long and slow. 

 

“You taste terrible,” Aziraphale murmured when they parted, only a few inches, hands still resting on each other’s faces. Crowley tucked his forehead into Aziraphale’s temple, dropping another kiss just above his ear. “I’ll have to find my best bottle to get the sanctimoniousness out.” 

 

“Quit being rude and tempt me to some sloth,” Crowley said, folding himself more securely into Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale settled around him, reassuringly solid. He’d been to Hell recently, for the same performance review that had called Crowley to Heaven, but had been sent back up within days when it became clear that technically, he’d still been espousing mostly demonic qualities, and the lower-downs weren’t really ready for the sort of deep theological analysis necessary to get past that surface reading, especially after Aziraphale talked them lazily in circles for a few hours. By now he only smelled of dusty pages and Earl Grey, only felt like his own stubborn, rude, infuriating, familiar self. Crowley relaxed into it, almost visibly releasing his lingering Gabriel-induced tension. Within moments he was asleep, even crammed uncomfortably across the chair as he was. Realizing this, Aziraphale made a show of annoyance even though Crowley wasn’t awake to appreciate it, called his book back to his hand (repairing the bent page from where it had been dropped as he did), and settled in, resting his chin on Crowley’s head. 


End file.
